GCHQ: Why Cheltenham?

Over on Twitter, Chris Greenway asked why GCHQ came to Cheltenham, and whether anywhere else was considered. What follows is based on a booklet written by Peter Freeman, my predecessor-but-one as GCHQ Historian. That booklet is out of print, and my successor is in the process of producing a new edition. Peter covered a lot of ground about what happened in Cheltenham after the move was decided which I won't cover here.

On 1 April 1946 GCHQ began the move away from Bletchley Park. It took four days and saw a much smaller organisation than had been in existence a year earlier move to Eastcote, a former Bombe station in the London suburbs. At that time it felt logical that GCHQ should return to London: called GC&CS, it had left Broadway Buildings by St James's Park (which it shared with SIS) in August 1939. The drivers for the move were that the office space at Bletchley was too large for the much reduced (though still enormously bigger than 1939) size of the organisation, that as a national headquarters GCHQ 'should' be London-based, close to its customers, that the separation of cryptanalysis and cryptography – codebreaking and code making – had not been a success and that the pre-war staff who had patriotically endured six years in rural Buckinghamshire could reasonably expect that their posts would be returned to London.

Several problems became immediately apparent. Eastcote was scarcely St James's Park, and customers felt just as far away as they had when GCHQ was at Bletchley Park; pre-war staff who didn't have houses in West London faced conditions analogous to wartime getting to and from work. Most importantly, the world of 1946 was far from that of 1939: GCHQ wanted a headquarters – at one location and not dispersed – that could work in wartime as successfully as in peacetime. It had to have a mobilisation plan that recognised that its primary function was the production of military intelligence on the Soviet target and that would allow it to maintain the control of military Sigint it had acquired during the war and which, by 1947, the services had grudgingly accepted would be a permanent feature of UK Sigint.

All of this (it was felt) dictated a move well away from London; there was even discussion of the argument that modern communications would make distance irrelevant, and in view of the threat of nuclear warheads on long-range rockets a move right out of the UK, perhaps to Canada, should be considered. (No Canadian was consulted during consideration of this possibility, which never gained any real traction.)

The general feeling was that about a hundred miles from London was a suitable distance, and – bearing in mind the normal requirements whether in peace or war for face-to-face contacts and close liaison with central government Ministries – good rail and road connections with London would be required. The location should provide adequate numbers for local recruitment and reasonable housing and amenities for its staff; this meant GCHQ was looking for premises in or very close to a town of reasonable size.

The enormous importance of housing in the immediate post-war period was a significant part of the jigsaw: labour and materials were in short supply throughout the country, and the whole building trade was controlled by central government.

The most demanding criterion was the requirement for good telephone and teleprinter communications. The post-war GCHQ needed hundreds of circuits, which for safety should be routed via two or more paths to two or more main switching centres (GPO or military). These circuits had to be permanent and guaranteed free from requisitioning by any other department, such as the Services, in a wartime emergency.

Most importantly, GCHQ was looking for a set of vacant offices already owned by the government. There was no question of buying commercially-owned buildings, let alone of building a whole new set (though some expansion might be affordable, and the requirements of GCHQ's communications centre and specialised machinery would probably mean that modifications would have to be made).

Within these constraints the first step was to find the right part of the country on grounds of landline communications and nearby towns; the second would be to seek suitable buildings.

A number of candidate areas were considered:

a. Oxford or Cambridge were the right size, the right distance from London, and offered the possibility of recruiting staff in wartime. In particular the Cambridge area included Huntingdon, which had some advantages; Norwich was also a possibility. On the other hand there were many Service establishments, especially RAF stations, in the area and throughout East Anglia, which might pre-empt cable lines (and attract enemy attacks).

b. The Bedford-Leighton Buzzard area (which included Bletchley Park itself) had adequate communications and some amenities, but the competition from other government departments for space and communications would be severe.

c. The Liverpool-Manchester area had accommodation possibilities and the cable routes were being improved, but industrial development would absorb any capacity currently planned.

d. Shrewsbury, Exeter-Bridgwater and Taunton were also attractive (although all but Exeter were rather small towns), but communications serving the area were inadequate, a situation that was unlikely to improve.

e. The Bristol-Bath-Gloucester-Cheltenham area looked very attractive. The RAF had a major switching centre near Chippenham, the Army had one near Cheltenham, and the United States Army was said to have built up a network of cables in the area during the war. There were several large centres of population, all with good connections to London.

This last was the most promising, hut for many months all were possibilities. Then suddenly both steps in the decision were taken at once: in October 1947 a member of GCHQ on a private visit to Cheltenham heard that there was a large set of government buildings at nearby Benhall Farm (Oakley seems not to have been mentioned to him), currently occupied by the Ministry of Pensions but likely to be vacated within a year or two. He arranged to look over the buildings, representing himself as an Admiralty official interested in pensions procedures.

His report was most encouraging. There was adequate capacity for staff; a canteen, support buildings and a Ministry of Works depot adjacent. There were buses to and from Cheltenham every 10 minutes: the local corporation and people were well-disposed towards Civil Servants: and local recreational and social facilities were excellent. The other candidates remained on the list for many months, but from this moment onwards Cheltenham was the only one seriously considered by GCHQ.

Gwen's Finest Hour?

 

[TC Comment: this is the last instalment of Gwen Tovey's memoirs. I hope you've enjoyed them. This story hasn't been published before. I'll explain at the end why I think it is important as well as entertaining.]

One morning early in 1969, when I came into the office, I found some rather startling signals from RAF stations in Germany (Butzweilerhof and Teufelsberg). They were reporting that they could hear none of the usual air-to-ground voice traffic from the fighters of the Tactical Air Forces (TAF) in Germany, which should have been in full swing by that time. Now, a stand-down of all aircraft at least 24 hours before an attack was one of the indicators in a report which I had compiled some 10 years earlier, about likely Sigint indicators of Soviet intentions to attack.

So I had to do something about this at once. I summoned all eight Soviet Intelligence coordinators and asked them to go and find out what was happening on their targets, with particular reference to anything that had been mentioned in the Indicator paper. Some 10 minutes later they reported back and it seemed that all aircraft — the fighters, the light bombers, the bombers of the Long Range Air Force (LRAF) and the Transport Commands were silent and there were no tracking reports on the air defence nets.

We put together a report, which specified all this, but with a comment which played the whole thing down by pointing out that no other indications, which would be expected if this meant an intention to attack, were discernible. Particularly, there was nothing in the communications of the LRAF (the bombers of which could carry atomic bombs), which resembled their preparations for major exercises. There was nothing on the Strategic Rocket Forces (SRF) links, there was nothing on naval links. In fact the Navy seemed to be preoccupied with an annual tin-pot little exercise in the Baltic. But nevertheless I issued an Alert [TC: a way in which all Five Eyes Sigint intercept stations could be warned that something might be happening] and hastily got someone to send a teleprint to NSA, saying what we were up to, just before issuing the FLASH report.

The next morning the front pages of newspapers were full of photographs of the usual Red Square scenes of long columns of tanks and guns, bands and missiles and hundreds of marching troops to celebrate — Oh Hell! — International Women's Day. So then, when I got into the office, I had to write the hardest signal of my life, apologising humbly and saying that all was now well and totally normal.

What was my horror then to find later that day, that in a couple of days' time the Senior Intelligence Officer from Strike Command proposed to come down and visit us. On the appointed day I sat shaking in my shoes waiting to be summoned to the Division Head's office, where the RAF officer would doubtless lambast me. However, suddenly the door of my office opened and in he strode with a great grin on his face, saying 'Let me shake you by the hand. That was the best exercise we ever had'. Now what he had done was to put the whole V Bomber force in the air and when he had done this, he was assailed by queries from station commanders saying 'What the hell is all this about?' And he said 'This just might this time be for real'.

I don't think an intelligence coordinator today would have received the totally blank silence I did, when I consulted the JIC Watch and the Foreign Office before sending off the original alarm, because the Anniversary is quite well known about today. But I think it will be a very long time before Whitehall grants us an extra day's holiday every time March 8th comes around.

[TC Comment: It's only since retiring that I realise that I would have taken some of the lessons this story contains for granted while still serving. Specifically:

a.       The GCHQ 'Soviet Intelligence Coordinators' would have been the equivalent of Senior Executive Officers: middle managers, with a wealth of knowledge and experience of their target, but six grades below the Director, and five grades higher than the most junior clerical staff. And yet they could put out a qualified Alert message to the whole of the western alliance saying that something big might be happening.

b.      In 1969 it was a woman who made the decision, and nobody questioned it, as she was intelligence coordinator for the Soviet Tactical Air Force and knew and understood her target. Of course GCHQ in 1969 wasn't an outpost of 21st century liberal values about diversity – it's only just appointed its first woman Director! – but however much harder Gwen had to fight to get on as far as the men she was working with, once there her knowledge and expertise were more important than the fact she was a woman.

c.       When GCHQ realised that it had issued a misleading report it took responsibility and explained its mistake. Getting something wrong isn't the end of the world if you can explain why you drew the conclusions that you drew and show how that is a knowledge gap that has been plugged. The best example of this I have seen is in HW 75, the intelligence reporting on the Soviet Bloc being released into The National Archives, in which a report on Soviet Field Post Numbers (FPNs) from the very early 1950s was corrected more than 20 years later because the location of one of the FPNs had finally been shown to be erroneous. What matters in intelligence reporting is accuracy so that those assessing it understand exactly how much weight can be put on it.]

Gwen: A Stressed Spinster

In September 1949, when I arrived back in Eastcote, rumours were circulating about a move away from the London area, possibly to Blackpool or to Cheltenham. At the time the government was keen on dispersing departments, what with the Russians having the atom bomb and thousands of foreign (ie American) troops on British soil. It was never quite clear, however, to whom we might be sending reports, apart from the War Cabinet in their bunker, because the main departments — Home Office, FCO, and the three Service Ministries remained in Whitehall. Perhaps that led to a further story: that aircraft were standing by to take key GCHQ personnel to Canada.

The Gloucestershire Echo recently published a summary of the arrangements — the start of building at Oakley, the takeover of wartime huts at Benhall, and some information on how it all progressed. But the articles did not give any idea of what it felt like to be in the middle of it all, so what follows is the emotional stuff.

Removal day at the office

At Eastcote I was one of the heads of three sections, all in one huge office under the nominal control of a timorous person who was neither coming to Cheltenham nor was capable of saying boo to the removal men who were employed to take everything away in their huge pantechnicons. So the three section heads had to get together and work out how things which were going to different rooms in Cheltenham were to be loaded — first in last off — and to label absolutely everything, tables, chairs, wastepaper bin, steel cupboards with coded entry, and steel filing cabinets with keys. They all had to be labelled with their precise destinations, and obviously the codes of the cupboards and the keys of the filing cabinets had to be recorded and tagged, and carried down by official transport. All this took quite some time. And then we had to pack away absolutely every scrap of paper into the cupboards and filing cabinets and then supervise the chaps who were moving it. Any slippage might cause a great deal of trouble at the other end. Then we had to search the office when all the furniture had gone to make sure there weren't any bits of paper behind radiators etc. After that the security people would come round and do another one. I don't know whether they found anything after we had left; I didn't hear of anything. Then we set off — I don't remember how — in order to meet the stuff coming in at the other end. The additional complication was that many of us who were really destined to go to Oakley had to move into the Benhall huts (presumably because of some glitch in the building programme at Oakley) in what was rightly called The Crush Move. So that was all quite stressful but nothing compared to what was to come in attempting to move ourselves and our personal luggage.

Accommodation

A number of the higher grade people came down to Cheltenham to buy houses in the vicinity, many of which were genuine old Cotswold houses or farms, all needing some renovation and modernisation, though not all got it! Others chose to build new houses within Cheltenham or to buy them, including one or two in Battledown. The less well-off or more urban-minded of the senior staff were accommodated in specially-built houses known as Managerial Houses, in two areas — one set back from the A40 on the road between Benhall and the town, and the other to the east on the edge of Charlton Kings, the Ledmore Road Estate.

Cheltenham welcomed the lower fry. Obviously we constituted hundreds of new ratepayers, and for us they built Princess Elizabeth Way to link the A40 with the Tewkesbury Road, and built the complex of low-rise buildings at the A40 end as flats for single people. Between there and the Tewkesbury Road there were only two buildings on Princess Elizabeth Was. Scott House and Edward Wilson House. Behind these single-occupancy flats there was a gaggle of streets of rather poky houses for families. Imagine it. We all had to walk from there to Benhall to start work at 0800 over what we called The Blasted Heath. and it really was. There were no trees, no Hester's Way development, no shops, no cafes, no church, no post office, no bank, no library, no telephones (and of course no IT or mobiles).

The stress which I refer to in the title felt by spinsters (and by bachelors, of course) having to settle in a barren environment was increased for many, including me, by the fact that we had lived for years in barracks or furnished rented accommodation. and lacked some of the basic equipment and the experience necessary for coping with everyday living. To compound it all, GCHQ in its wisdom decided to give married people two extra days leave to visit Cheltenham and work out, order and have installed anything extra that they needed in the way of equipment or furniture. But spinsters were given only one day for an advance visit. I thought I was being clever by adding two days annual leave to the single day I was granted, and to go down by train, arriving with a folding camp bed to stay in the sitting-room of someone who had already moved. However, I was carrying so much heavy luggage that I ricked my back on Ealing Broadway station and arrived at my destination, 50 Scott House, by taxi via a visit to a doctor, who of course recommended rest. Some hope! Next morning I struggled to my feet and to the bus stop, heading to the town centre where I arranged for the delivery of a gas cooker and a divan bed (which I purchased from the extremely helpful Peter Paynter of Shirer's, who really knew about furniture, though he looked rather like "greenery yallery young man"). I also had to organise a supply of coal, because the only heating in the flat was an open fire in the sitting room. I had to arrange for all utility services to be switched on, and to buy some food and a whole lot of cleaning equipment, so that on the bus back I was loaded with a mop, a broom, a galvanised bucket (no plastics), and in the bucket with the food, a scrubbing brush, a coal shovel, dusters and polish for the ubiquitous black Marley tile floors which remained shiny for about the first 24 hours after you had been down on your knees polishing them.

I was luckier than many because, after the actual move with my gas cooker and the divan and a cabin trunk as a table, and a half-pegged bedside rug in blue and white, at the weekend my father came down in his Wolseley bringing furniture from my childhood bedroom, a proper bed and mattress, chest of drawers, some bookshelves and, strapped to the roof my bright blue drop-handlebarred bicycle. Somehow we all managed it, more or less. I remember a couple of us going to tea with some fellow in Edward Wilson House where we had to sit on the floor in the sitting room because the only furniture he had in it was a piano stool and a grand piano.

Perhaps I should say a little more about exactly what the accommodation in Scott House consisted of, because I expect most of the readers will have only passed by occasionally and just vaguely noticed among the crowded buildings on both sides of Princess Elizabeth Way these two great blocks of red brick buildings. There were three floors with five or six flats on each floor and three spurs with similar arrangements. The flats were approached by concrete stairs and concrete walkways passing straight in front of everybody's front door and kitchen window. This proved a bit of a trial for certain officers visiting their mistresses. (As has been noted of Bletchley Park, the fact that officers could not speak to their wives about anything they had been doing in the office meant that they couldn't really go home and immediately become family men because their heads were still full of worries or dramas or triumphs in the office that day. This meant that a sympathetic, professional ear, and the sheer propinquity of workers, especially, if I may say so, in the Crush Move just led to various affairs, obviously.)

In the dim and dank undercroft of the staircases were some bicycle sheds and rows of galvanised dustbins to which one had to carry down ashes from the fire and any other rubbish. These sort-of concrete dungeons and stairways could resemble the settings in lowlife police procedural books today.

After we had moved in our troubles were by no means over because, of course, we had slowly to build up more furniture and get accustomed to the ways of Cheltenham. We worked five days a week from 0800 to, I think, 1630, and we worked every other Saturday morning. The shops in Cheltenham at that time usually had Wednesday afternoon off, and many of them closed on Saturday afternoon instead or in addition, which made it pretty difficult to do one's shopping. But a grocers called Silks from along the High Street just beyond the Bath Road scooped the market by coming round and saying that they would take orders on a Monday evening and deliver the week's groceries on a Friday. And of course at that time milk was delivered very early in the morning in bottles left outside the front doors along the walkway. Coal was delivered through a hatch in the walkway and then you had to open a door inside, which meant that a whole lot of coal dust flooded out onto your (carefully polished?) Marley tiles.

Cheltenham Town

Cheltenham itself would be scarcely recognisable today. There were to my knowledge only four shops which belonged to a national chain. They were MacFisheries, the Cadena café, one branch of the Maypole Dairy and Woolworth's. There were innumerable pubs, but the idea of a gastro-pub had not been invented. There were several cafes beside the Cadena, some of them very good, but no coffee bars as such. There were, however, numerous branches of the Gloucestershire Dairy, one of which in the Promenade had a cafe above it. There were also a number of extremely good greengrocers, one near to the old Plough Hotel (which is now the Regent Arcade) and another on the corner of Clarence Street and Post Office Lane. And there was absolutely no reason for any eating-house or any greengrocer to boast that they had locally-sourced produce because local-sourced stuff was the only stuff available (apart from oranges and the occasionally available banana). There was a coal-merchant's office in the middle of the Promenade! There were no supermarkets — the present Tesco site was occupied by the gas works. There was a large number of independent stores beside these food-supply ones, many of which had been there a hundred years before, as I discovered from a facsimile edition of a guide to Cheltenham published in 1851.

And perhaps I'll end with an anecdote which involves one of those independent stores, and a colleague, the extremely well turned out Captain Raymond Lisser. Fast forward to 1960 to a corridor in GCHQ Cheltenham. I am walking along, wearing a stark white dress which shows off my just-acquired Sicilian-holiday tan, and meet Ray. Conversation follows:-

RL (after some complimentary remark): Where do you get your clothes?

Me: I think this came from Peter Robinson

RL (rather blankly): Oh. Most of my girlfriends go to Madame Wright.

Me: I'm afraid that's a bit above my pay-scale, Ray.

RL: You don't mean to say that you actually live on your pay?

Me: What on earth do you think I live on, Ray? ?***!!!

Gwen Joins GCHQ at Eastcote

[TC note: In the latter part of the 1940s, most office-based staff in GCHQ were recruited as an 'A', 'B' or 'C' grade, depending on whether (A) they were the fast stream, tipped for the very top, (B) it was thought they would develop and become senior intelligence analysts or (C) would follow a pattern similar to mainstream civil servants. Progression through these grades was denoted by a roman numeral, so an AI (A one) was at the top of this particular tree, while a CVI (C six) was at the bottom. Up to 1945 Junior Assistant (JA) was the normal entry grade but for a brief period, the JA title was used for AIVs (AIV was the lowest A grade). JAs, then AIVs were usually called 'cadets'. B grades were called Departmental Specialists (DSs).  Believe it or not, this is a great simplification of a much more complex structure which, if I remember correctly, got to a point where there were more than 160 separate grade titles by the mid-1960s.]

Before dealing with my post-war Sigint career I should like to recommend Tessa Dunlop's book "The Bletchley Girls" — 16 of them, ranging from the obligatory member of the aristocracy to a Bletchley born girl proud to have been taken on as a messenger at the age of 14. For several of them the Bletchley experience changed their life, as it did for me.

In my last term at Oxford. I wangled an interview at GCHQ through the good offices of Pat Baber. It was Joe Hooper who interviewed me and obviously he didn't think much of me, as I was offered only a middling executive grade post. Even so, it paid more and it appealed to me very much more than the alternatives suggested by the Oxford careers officer. I trusted that the BP habit of promoting on merit regardless of background or gender still obtained.

After about two months I was amongst many people who had stayed on in Eastcote to appear before the Civil Service Commissioner himself and an all-male panel, which decided not only was I acceptable as an established rather than as a temporary civil servant, but also I was appointed to be a JA (Junior Assistant) — the fast track cadet scheme. ultimately destined for the lofty heights of an A (Administrative) grade. This was largely because John Burrough representing GCHQ on the panel had asked me a splendid question: "Which would you marry, Mr Knightly or Darcy?" Anyone who knows me will know what I replied, but I must have argued the case rather well, it seems to have impressed them all. Anyway every man likes to think he is like Darcy — experientia docet.

To be awarded a JA post sounds like an upward move, but in fact it involved a considerable drop in pay and after three months I blew the whole month's salary on a silver-grey suit in Knightsbridge [i] and asked if I could stop being a JA. So they gave me a CIV (still executive grade). Then at the beginning of the new promotion board season, I was recommended for a BIII, but they said "No, you've cheated, but you can be a CIII". But the next season I did actually pass the BIII board and I went on throughout my career in the Departmental Specialist grade.

Apart from these wobbles in the promotion stakes I was rebuked from all sides at the way I had come back. After only about two weeks Joe Hooper came rushing down from the Directorate to say "Why didn't you tell me you were going to get a First?" I mumbled: "Because I didn't know" [ii]. The Principal of Lady Margaret Hall also rebuked me for entering the Civil Service by the back door and for not following her advice to stay in Oxford and take a law degree, a ludicrous suggestion. Even my Middle English tutor wrote to me several times suggesting that I return to Oxford to do a B Lit. [iii]

Enough of this vainglory – my actual job on first returning was to take charge single-handedly of the Soviet Mainline two-channel Baudot links, which Yvonne and I had left in April 1946, but they were a shadow of their former selves. 

In the days after VE Day they had passed masses of traffic, as Moscow tightened its hold on the overrun countries of Eastern Europe. Now all links, except one to the Far East, were reduced to a few schedules every day, just for practice. As a log reader I was reduced to simply identifying which frequencies and which schedules belonged to which link and to making the tremendous discovery that the Moscow control operated a three-shift system which involved four teams exactly like Knockholt, and that the charge hands were distinguishable by very slight differences in their sign-off tapes. These were all variants on the very simple theme Tamli, tamli, tamli? ("are you there?" or in other words "what is my signal strength?") and a sequence of letters AGIPCh. (If anyone knows what AGIPCh means, will they please let me know, because it niggles.)

Then something more interesting happened. A new link appeared between Moscow and somewhere in Central Asia, which was talking in plain language Russian, even though guardedly, and included a number of references to a birch tree and an oak tree. I interpreted this as meaning they were referring to different kinds of aerials — the birch being a single tall mast and the oak a spreading array such as a rhombus. But I thought I'd better get a real linguist to check that I wasn't making an enormous mistake. But it was a mistake to ask him. He said that a birch tree was a birch tree and an oak tree was an oak tree and that was that. It was no use arguing with him that it was rather peculiar that a high-ranking engineer in Moscow should be talking to a colleague in the wastes of the Steppe lands of Central Asia, a sea of grass, about arboriculture.

Much later in my career I came across another potentially more dangerous example of tunnel vision. It was in the heady days when computer capabilities were rapidly expanding and young Turks were eagerly training themselves for a magnificent future in which computers would be applied to many more things than simply assisting cryptographers, wonderful though that had always been. I was asked to provide an example to see how far they might help with the work of the division responsible for the Soviet problem and I chose a Long Range Air Force exercise. I gave them all the air defence tracking and explained what that was, and gave them all the air-to-ground communications between the planes and the various airfields and explained what that was. And then sent them away to make of it what they would. A few days later they came back and proudly informed me that they had discovered that the aircraft did not fly at night. "Ye gods and little fishes" I was muttering to myself but restrained myself and asked them why they thought Tupolev should design a bomber aircraft which couldn't fly at night and if they could explain what sort of exercise involved the following pattern:

Day 1:    40 aircraft fly from A to B

Day 2:    40 aircraft fly from C to D

Day 3:    At least 25 (though evidence was more scanty) fly from E to F

I then reminded them that what GCHQ was studying was the communications of the Soviet Union and that this involved listening to them. But the plain fact was that we simply could not hear the frequencies they used at night. I must admit that later, of course, they did give us tremendous help, but I still remember in the early days having to beat off offers of the moon in two weeks' time. when what I wanted was a small piece of cheese by tomorrow morning. The plain truth of the exercise to a traffic analyst was that 40 aircraft had set off from a base in Europe and flown, by day and night hops, to another known base in the Far East to commence a proper exercise.

To get back to my early job, the Soviet printer network began to expand enormously with the appearance of single channel teleprinter links at lower echelons in both the Army and the Air Forces. By the time I moved on, I had three people to help me. They were still not doing anything interesting, but it was a good thing we kept continuity on them, because years later, long after I had left the section and we had moved to Cheltenham, suddenly the printer links sprang into life with the Soviet invasion of Hungary in 1956. I was the only person who understood how they worked, so I was called back to read absolute scads of logs and pass on the traffic sorted by type to the cryptographers. Then I had to devise a week's training course on how to read Soviet mainline printer traffic.

Shortly after the move to Cheltenham I made what I think was one of my greatest contributions to the future of the whole organization by promoting a certain CA (Clerical Assistant - the lowest of the low) to CO. He was an ex-Signals corporal and by getting promotion to CO he was given an armchair like the other 19 members of the section. His name was Des L and people I hope will remember him as shooting up and being a wonderful liaison officer and being awarded quite rightly a national honour, because if anyone was ever born to do Sigint, it was Des. [iv]

Mentioning that Des was once a corporal reminds me that in the days of National Service several young servicemen from the Intelligence Corps were attached to GCHQ and of two stories about them. The first is about Corporal Alex Bennett. When I came back early from lunch one day in 1950, I found Alex in floods of tears. and when I asked him what on earth was the matter, he said want to dance". I got the story from him that at the age of 16 in Edinburgh he had first seen a ballet and decided that that was what his life was going to be. and had been seeking out a ballet class wherever he went. Fortunately for all concerned, as usual in GCHQ, there was someone qualified to help. She had belonged to the Sadlers Wells Company, later the Royal Ballet, until she broke her ankle. So Jolene organized an interview for Alex with Ninette de Valois. She said that she was very sorry she couldn't take him, but that he should try Marie Rambert, and Marie Rambert took him on the spot. To my great pleasure some years later I saw him dancing the premier role of Albrecht in Giselle at the Everyman in Cheltenham. He stayed with the Marie Rambert throughout his career and finished up as a choreographer.

The second instance reminds me that, just like BP and GCHQ. National Service threw a whole lot of people together who in civilian life would have belonged to very much divided classes of society – though not so divided as would have been the case before the First World War. This concerns two corporals who were in my section just before we moved to Cheltenham. Corporal Y came to me one day and said could he have a quiet word with me. So we went out into the corridor and he said Corporal X, with whom he was billeted, was. he thought, 'on the brink of a nervous breakdown'. I could see what he was getting at, because Corporal X had just deliberately tipped a whole bottle of ink all over his work, which I had just asked him to show to me. Anyway, Corporal Y, who was a raw-boned son of a miner from Lancashire, was worried that Corporal X, who was a Winchester public school boy with a scholarship at Oxford awaiting him, was terrified that the rest of the squad might find out that he was a transvestite. I thought it was very touching that Corporal Y showed such care and loyalty to this so different a creature from quite a different world. By some means or other I wangled it that Corporal X was given early release and I hope he was happier in Oxford.

Next time I won't ramble on so much and shall summarise as succinctly as possible the great move to Cheltenham.

[i] Three men had separately offered help in paying for that suit. Rather primly but wisely I refused.

[ii] To even have hinted at such a success would have been overweeningly arrogant. Of the 400 undergraduates sitting the final honours degree exam in English more than half were ex-service, matured beyond their age by up to six years of war. And the number of Firsts awarded was eight, that is 2%.

[iii] Kate Lea told me after Dorothy Everett 's death that 'Ev' had hoped that one day I would succeed her as a Middle English don. I burst into tears at the compliment but I thought then and do so now that she was irreplaceable as a scholar and as a person.

[iv] Des discovered a hitherto totally unknown fighter formation in the Transcaucasus, and pin-pointed its location by sweet-talking the DF pundits into giving him all the details of DF bearings instead of just their best guestimates. Also in the days when totally distinct and diverse formations shared the same call-sign book, he noted that some scraps found by general search operators seemed to form a continuity. He followed this up and thereby identified a whole new ring of air defence batteries deployed around Moscow, equipped with surface-to-air missiles. Many log readers who came across such scraps would have simply marked them 'not mine' and not cared about what thew were. But Des did care and I was privileged to hear him argue the toss against the very much senior team of              people who had some other different and highfalutin' theory about what they were.